Marked By Magic
by Kethrielle
Summary: What is going on behind that mild mannered apostate hobo mask Solas wears? It slips from time to time, though, and when he talks to the Inquisitor at the veil fire torch, it's gone for good. A story with mostly short chapters, from Solas' POV. This is a gift for an AO3 reader who left lovely comments on Echoes.
1. Chapter 1

_Another human. Of course it was another human. _

Two humans, both possessing _his_ magic while he had none of it. It was intolerable.

The first - that insane human mage who claimed to have been to the black city - had betrayed him and stolen his orb. That could almost have been his own fault, if one looked at it in the proper light, since he had handed over the orb willingly enough. This second human, though, should not have been involved at all.

It was infuriating that he had to deal with a human to reclaim what was his from a different human. And _this_ human came surrounded by yet more humans, humans who looked on mages with suspicion, which meant he had to tread carefully when he would much rather simply take the woman and force her to do what he needed to reclaim his orb.

He had no idea what the magic of the mark would do to a human; he didn't know what the one who called himself a magister had done to the orb to create such a thing. In a way, he didn't much care what became of either of them as long as he got back what was his. He didn't think the humans in this place would appreciate it if the woman never woke up, so he tried to preserve her life.

The mark was draining power from her, and he was able to stop that, but he had no further success. He had tried everything he could think of to remove the mark - _his_ magic - from this human's hand. First he had tried to transfer it to himself, when that didn't work he tried simply to dispel it. That didn't work either, and only seemed to cause pain to the human who lay unconscious on the floor of the chantry basement.

Finally, he gave up, and left. He had to remind himself not to stamp angrily up the stairs; it didn't fit in with the mild mannered and harmless apostate he had presented himself as. The humans here were all on edge, and it wouldn't take much for them to decide that he needed to be detained as well.

He stopped in the chantry to offer a report on his progress to one of the guards there, sure that it would be repeated to those who wished to know.

If stamping on the stairs was out of character, relieving his anger by sending lightning bursts into the surrounding peaks was completely out of the question. His anger, so tightly contained and constrained by the role he had assumed in order to gain access to the human who wore _his_ magic on her hand, demanded that he destroy something. He headed toward the front gate, thinking to expend some of his anger on the training field, but was stopped before he reached his goal.

"How is she? Do you think she'll make it?" The speaker was a dwarf who cradled a crossbow in his arms and wore a supply pack on his back.

He shrugged slightly. "I do not know. For now, the mark no longer drains her own power. It may be enough to allow her to awaken. Without know what caused the mark to be placed on her in the first place, it is hard to say if this will make a difference. It certainly cannot hurt."

The dwarf nodded. "Well, if there's nothing else you can do here, how do you fancy a trip out to the valley? I was going to go help the Seeker's troops out, there are plenty of demons to go around.

He grinned at this, and nodded. "Absolutely. I am ready to leave now, if you wish."

Together, the apostate mage and the dwarf headed out of Haven and toward the Valley of Sacred Ashes.


	2. Chapter 2

Killing demons was very satisfying. He blasted them with magical force, encased them in ice, or called lightning down to jump from one target to the next. If his strikes were stronger than necessary, if his spells had more power behind them than would have been expected, neither Varric nor the beleaguered soldiers noticed.

The rift hung over the battlefield throughout the fight, and once he had burned enough of the anger out of his system to pay attention to anything other than destruction, he felt it tugging at his awareness. He had described the breech and these smaller rifts as "tears in the veil" to the humans to whom he had offered his assistance, but that explanation was so simplistic that it was nearly wrong.

The breech and the rifts were _wounds_ in the veil; part of what twisted the spirits that were drawn through them into demons was the pain that pulsed outwards from the rifts. He could feel it washing over him as he fought; a constant, inescapable pain, like exposing a serious burn to heat.

Finally, he could stand it no longer, and aimed his magic at the rift. He was very familiar with the veil, and he could see how the wound needed to be healed. It wasn't difficult, he should be able to affect a rift this small.

He couldn't. His magic drained away, his spell falling apart as if it had never been. The rift pulsed and sent out another wave of demons, drawing his attention away from his attempt to close it in favor of protecting himself.

When the demons were finally gone, he tried again. As the soldiers and Varric slumped onto whatever rubble was closest and tried to catch their breath or attend to their wounds, he drank a mana potion and studied the rift. Finally deciding that his error had been in the strength of his spell, he gathered all his magic and built his spell without releasing any power. When the spell was complete, he released it all at once, his concentrated power hitting the rift with enough force to cause a muffled boom. The rift itself pulsed once, and spewed out another collection of demons.

This was insufferable. He fought the demons automatically, seething all the while. Those rifts had been created with _his_ orb. The power had been twisted, yes, but it was undeniably his, he could feel it. It _should_ respond to his will alone, let alone his will and all the power he could bring to bear on it.

_All the power he could bring to bear. _Yes, that was the problem. He no longer possessed sufficient power. And that was purely maddening. His own power stores were depleted, his orb stolen, and the only piece of his power that he had any access to lay bonded to some _human_ lying beneath the Chantry, and had not responded to him despite all his efforts.

Feeling frustrated beyond measure, he yelled, and threw himself into the battle.

Any good trainer, whether of fighters, mages, or rogues, would have told their newest recruits that fighting in anger was stupid. It wore away your strength, and caused you to overreach. He knew this, and yet fought in anger anyway; it was either that, or call down a lightning strike that would leave everything around him a smoking ruin.

Which was how he found himself involved in melee combat, all his mana potions consumed, using his staff as a quarterstaff while firing off arcane bolts, unable to cast anything greater, and surrounded by lesser shades. He was beginning to be worried about this, when a form stepped between him and a powerful swipe from one of the shades. The soldier caught the blow on her shield and returned a sword stroke that finished the shade. She quickly moved on to the next target, but he had felt the familiar touch of his own magic, and saw the green flare of it on her hand.

Seeker Pentaghast had brought the prisoner out here? What in the Fade could she be thinking? There was no time to puzzle out an answer to that question, as he was still fighting shades and his mana was still dangerously depleted. He moved closer to the prison, where the flare of his magic - _his magic, sitting uselessly on the palm of a fighter when he could be using it!_ \- gave him a small measure of strength.

It was enough, especially with the additional help, to finish off the demons. Before any more could come through the rift, he grabbed the prisoners wrist. Feeding his will through the power she held, he worked the spell a third time. This time, a visible channel of magic poured into the rift, and sealed it.

He may have overdone things a bit, in his frustration; the force of the closing rift knocked the prisoner back, jerking her arm out of his grip. She stared at her palm, then raised baffled eyes to his face.

"What did you do?"

He felt giddily triumphant. He almost grinned, almost boasted proudly of how his power had so effectively closed the rift. Before he could speak, he caught sight of Seeker Pentaghast. She was watching him closely, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. He remembered suddenly that here, he was an apostate mage: a dangerous entity to be imprisoned and controlled, allowed his freedom because he might be useful, and because he had convinced them that he wasn't a threat.

Swallowing his first reply, he adopted a deferential expression.

"_I_ did nothing. The credit is yours."

The words burned in his throat. He didn't have long to dwell on this though, because as the prisoner's attention turned away from him, he felt a flare of magic from the mark on her palm.

His magic had always been something he was deservedly proud of. He hadn't simply poured raw power into his orb; over the centuries, he had shaped it, guided it, until it grew and became something more. It wasn't sentient by any means, but it was adaptive. At the height of his power, his orb had possessed a rudimentary ability to learn from the uses he put it to, and predict what actions he would take in certain circumstances. He had kept this secret close, and gloated over it in private.

Now, he felt the mark using this ability. It remembered the shape of his will as he pushed it through the power of the mark, remembered the result, and would most likely repeat the spell at future rifts.

He tried to convince himself that this was a positive development, but mostly he found it annoying; his lie about who had closed the rift was about to become very nearly the truth.

He could only hope that the prisoner herself would not notice what was going on, before he could reclaim his magic from her.

_**A/N: **__**I always wondered how a non-mage Inquisitor handled the power of the Anchor so easily and effectively. It makes sense for a mage to be able to pick it up quickly - they handle magic all the time - but for someone who has never had anything to do with any sort of magic before? And then, to have their ability and proficiency grow? It kind of stuck out at me, especially since I played a fighter on my first play-through, and never quite lost some of those first impressions.**_


	3. Chapter 3

For a human, she actually wasn't too bad. As they fought their way to the forward camp, and then through the mountain pass toward what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he slowly came to the opinion that if a human absolutely _had_ to have control of his magic, this human wasn't such a bad choice.

He had spent enough time studying these humans to know that they did not look kindly on either mages or magic. Even those who weren't actively involved in condemning magic and imprisoning mages had so little true knowledge of magic as to be nearly useless. It was as something of a test, therefore, that he cast his barrier around her as they fought demons on their way to the forward camp.

She turned a startled glance on him as the barrier flickered over her with a slight tingle, but quickly turned back to the fight. Afterwards, she simply nodded her thanks, and moved on. He couldn't help but be impressed by her casual acceptance of his assistance.

She proved to be rather adaptable in any number of surprising ways, actually. She was quite skilled in her chosen form of combat, and seemed to quickly grasp the tactics involved in leading a mixed team; he directions to them as they entered battle - and occasionally the warnings yelled during a battle - were always effective.

She didn't seem to have any trouble accepting the Seeker's changing opinion of her, his own taciturn silence, or Varric's irreverent commentary. She was equally undisturbed by Roderick's anger, when they finally reached the forward camp.

She accepted the necessity and responsibility of closing the rift at the Temple with the same calm demeanor that she used when suddenly called upon for a decision by her former captors.

In all, where he had expected that she would be so bewildered by her circumstances as to be mostly useless, she was turning out to be not only fully capable of coping but willing and able to do so.

He wasn't sure if this was a positive development, or if it would make his goal more difficult to accomplish. Where a bewildered wielder would have allowed him to step in and provide the control - or, rather, guidance - that he wished to exert to make sure that things worked out the way he wanted them to, he couldn't help but be impressed by her. What was more, he was slowly wrapping his mind around the idea that if she didn't need to be dragged toward his goal but might go willing - even eagerly - it might make things easier for him in the long run. Instead of brute force and constant, tiring shepherding - never his strong suit - he could simply let her pursue their goal with minimal direction, and a few slightly misleading bits of information.

By the time they reached the Temple ruins, he was nearly reconciled to this new plan, and feeling rather smug about it. It wasn't until the pride demon knocked her off her feet with a casual swipe of its arm, that he began to suspect there might be a glaring flaw in this new plan.

_If she died, what would happen to the anchor?_ He didn't know enough about it to be certain whether or not it would continue to exist if she was no longer alive. He knew that it was bound to her, he knew that even he could not pry it away from her, but what precisely was it tied to? Her physical form? Her life force? Something else entirely?

He hadn't thought to test that aspect of it, since he had no way of doing so without harming her, which would sit well with her captors and wasn't necessary until he knew more about the situation.

Fortunately, she was fine, and aside from ensuring that he was always close enough to her to keep her encased in his barrier, he didn't worry about the question again until after the fight was over.

He had quite a bit of time to ponder this question following the battle, while the prisoner - now called the Herald of Andraste, and wasn't _that_ an irony that made him want to snarl at everyone who spoke the phrase - lay unconscious in Haven.

By the time she awoke, he was no closer to an answer.

It hardly mattered, though. She was looked upon as a hero by all, and as a divine messenger by some, and even if he had wanted to test the anchor further, his chance was gone. He had no choice but to follow along as she charged down a path not of his making, and hope that he could influence her just enough to make sure that their goals were mutually attainable.


End file.
